


Efficacy of Manual Aspiration

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: Kinktober 2020 [9]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Cock Worship, Disfigurement, Doggy Style, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Lovecraftian, Masks, Massage, Medical Procedures, Passion, RST, Resolved Sexual Tension, Scars, Touch-Starved, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cock riding, oils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26915389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: The Leper steels himself for another session with The Plague Doctor - another episode of oiled massages through the rough, scarified flesh whilst his mental and physical resolve is tested. She doesn’t know the things she does to him, but it’s only a matter of time before she notices… or before he acts...A/N: Day 10 of Kinktober! Kink: Massages/Oils. I wrote this whole thing in a fucking fever and was worried it would be a total mess once I read it over again, but I'm actually really happy with this. Hopefully, you guys are too. <3
Relationships: Leper/Plague Doctor (Darkest Dungeon)
Series: Kinktober 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958581
Comments: 17
Kudos: 90





	Efficacy of Manual Aspiration

They do not do these sessions in the Tavern or the Brothel (though a private room would be more appropriate for these things, despite the cost in gold); neither do they find solace in a confessional booth as some do for other private matters. Instead of finding a nook or crevasse within the Hamlet's high walls, the Plague Doctor sets up camp less than a mile—but more than sanity's sake prefers—away from the chatter of soot hammers and bull chatter.

She arrives before him, as always. Already, her tent is spewing a subtle, fragrant smoke. The low putrid glow of mottled-yellow lanterns throb within, exposing all her profession's many stains on the stitched canvas sheets. The Leper does not enjoy these sessions in the same way he loathes being pitied or tempted by flesh he's not allowed to touch, for each time there is a longing in his body that dares betray him. There is nothing inherently intimate about her prescription, but the application of hands bathed in aromatic tinctures, primarily upon that which he hides shamefully, never ceases to stir him.

At the brim of her medical tent, she waits patiently, standing in a regal pose with her bare hands clasped before her. With a turn of her leather-stitched beak, the Plague Doctor gestures for him to follow—for him to come inside. 

Usually, he keeps strange eyes blind to what lay beneath his helm, but he is kept guessing in this instance. Even in the thicket of battle—drenched in fetid blood older than sands upon the shore can claim—she is masked. Not even a broken face, held within her birded-snout, urged her to remove the mask, nor tend to herself. To think, she might be as much a fractured mess underneath, more so than him, never troubles his evening thoughts of wet lips and comfort. 

_ Oh _ , how his body awakens as she grows impatient, waving him inside with the music of a scowl. She is fair, if not in reality, then in his mind. Too comely for this place—also enchanting for the work she carves. The beak is necessary, lest she distracts them when their concentration is needed the most.

Within the tent, the reek of remedied pestilence lingers. Among the many unpleasant odors are several thuribles smoking purplish miasmas of redolent herbs. When asked, the Plague Doctor replies with names he's illiterate in; only one does he recall. Lavender: the smell calms and soothes his nerves as she helps him with the leather buckles at his flank and shoulders. Being exposed after weeks of such confinement is genuinely unnerving. The spell of perceived armor—metaphorical and physical alike—ruins a part of his resolve.

"Has the itching gone past your navel?"

The Leper shakes his head, helping her lift away the cuirass once the buckle over his shoulder releases. The task of disrobing him does not take long. Efficiency is key to what she does, and speed is the byproduct. As always, he attends to his codpiece himself, swaying away when her hands go near. 

A candle has barely burned down by an eight before the thick bandages begin unraveling from his torso. His arms are next: lesion-filled but none the worse since his treatments began—even a pink, healing splattering of missing skin slopes around his forearm now.  _ A miracle _ had the medicine men from his kingdom said it aloud. Nothing but death awaited him there. Here, he feels less like breathing decay.

Several bandages flutter around his hips and thighs, ignored for the soaked cloth she pets down his chest. The cleansing is long and arduous. Her oils work well to keep him clean beneath so many layers, but their smell grows in pungency after so long that the odor sticks within his senses, laying seeds of cloying sweat and rotten flowers.

Despite the Leper's disfigurement, muscles ripple in every pocket of his body among ugly lesions and bubbling skin. Had he smooth skin, there would be nothing to stop him from seeking his consuming desire for intimacy with the Plague Doctor, aside from her refusal, of course. Perhaps, even that would take a decent time to cull his lust. It's foolish now, but he still holds his breath as if hoping to hear a muffled sound of approval while she washes away medicinal grease and filth. Indeed, there must still be something attractive about him...

The sodden cloth scrubs around his throat, scraping away accumulated rust from his armor, but… her touch lingers far longer than it should. When he turns to The Plague Doctor's dark-tinted eyelets, she is positioned away, finished with his bathing for now. They do not wash his face, and though the idea seemed counterproductive at first, it has proved itself a success.

"Please, sit down."

The Leper sinks into the cushioned settee, filled with death stains masked by the overpowering allure of dried petals sewn within.

Muffled by her own bouquet of crushed perianths and inches of stiff cowhide, the Plague Doctor reminds, "If anything should begin to throb, do not stay mute. Too much blood is as unwanted here as too little. Four humors must stay within proper levels."

The Leper nods as he settles within stale cushions, shifting until the knot in his lower back only palpitates every other heartbeat: it has been a strain on his performance in battle many weeks now, but should he mention it aloud, there would be no helping the flooding of his loins. To have her firm touch anywhere beneath his naval could cause all manner of unwanted outcomes.

"Remove your helm then, Leper." Already, just by the hateless way she whispers his moniker, blood rushes down below his belt, deep beneath the leather greaves and far within his groin. His cock stirs at the prospect of touch. The pleasant way she speaks, so strong—stronger than needed to compensate for the voice-dampening beak—only thickens the pounding.

By their third session, exposing his face (or the remains of such former handsome visage) lost its luster. No longer was he wracked with fits of shame and disgust. Now, he simply removed the obnoxious weight of thick steel, shaking loose what strands of hay-colored hair remained. 

The Plague Doctor hums in her throat, a sound linked with the proceeding removal of the leather bands about her wrists. She said they were constricting somehow when he asked about them one evening, same with the gloves she regularly wore. None but her have chosen to touch him with bare hands, which jarred him that first time and all times since. 

He watches through grey eyes of clouded ailment as she washes those soft hands in a basin of rose water. Every joint in each finger elicits a pulsation of blood to fill and enlarge his phallus, straining against fabric as the candle notches pass. He made sure to tuck it tightly in a gauze of cotton before their treatment, yet already it tents the material. The Leper observes droplets of water wobble in crystalline sparks, swallowing the lantern light before crashing back into the bowl. Wet, moist fingers squeeze a stained towelette before reaching to a cruet-stand of black bottles labeled in names his tongue cannot pronounce. 

The Leper remains quiet, only drinking down the vision of such youthful, unmarred flesh doused in droplets of oils and perfumes until they shine… slick and sleek.

"Do relax this time," she admonishes gently, "You were too stiff at our last meeting."

_ She knows not what she says, _ he reminds himself as his cock presses frightfully against its confinement, desperately seeking air and the oiled touch that begins to stroke down the uneven ridges of his cheeks. The chore of such exquisite pleasure begins. Such is this burden... 

Gradually, despite his best efforts, his eyes fall close. There is no point in keeping their ghoulishness open as the Plague Doctor does her work. All she presents is the mockery of a raven—death incarnate—and the hourglass shape of a woman, hidden though it is beneath swaths of indigo-dyed turmeric cotton and leather straps which do well to accentuate an ample bosom and slim waistline.  _ No _ , to watch her bend over as she massages her mixture into his hideous features would only entail his cock ached all the denser.

The Leper has daydreamed of telling her how he throbs in other places, but each fantasy ends in humiliating betrayal—of uproarious disgust and the end of their sessions, which have replaced his appetite for the whores whom will not tend to him. All the gold on the barrows would not tempt even the eldest of harlots to his bedside, but this… perhaps is better than any skilled temptress.

"I said to relax," she reminds him, and though her tone is firm, it is also kind. As she bids, the Leper does his best to lessen the stress he carries in his shoulders, sinking further into her throne of pillows and silks as best he knows how. Feeling such delicate fabric on his skin continues to nag at his mind.

The deft massage of his many pocketing scars pulls much of the remaining tension from his body, though an incredibly firm swipe from his crown to the socket of his jaw makes his cock swell from within, milking out a droplet of hot moisture. How it weeps for something other than his own hand—a hand not only cut by leprosy but the weight of a great sword and the life such work leads unto. It is his burden to bear and a choice he made when nothing short of abandonment were his remaining friends, but it has been more than painful… 

This affliction has also been lonely. 

The Plague Doctor works gradually at the dry wounds, softening them with deft fingers and sickly sweet oils. She attends to him, and his breathing rises, growing ragged as the massage continues… seemingly never ceasing...

When his breath hitches, she pauses with eight fingers pressed under his cheekbones mid-sweep. Bleary and drunk off her touch, he slowly cracks his eyes open. Ellipses of pitch glass stare at him in corpse-like enthusiasm. Her beak gives no sign to her thoughts or a clue as to why she halted, but she is vocal at least and has never hesitated to say what weighs on her mind. "If you feel a throbbing, you are to do _ what _ , Leper?"

He swallows, trying to reply without exposing too much of the broken teeth beneath his thinning lips. 

Quietly, gravelly, the Leper grates out, "Nothing throbs." 

It's a lie as great as any he's told before, and it's the same he's spewed during every treatment. Each time he says the words, the Leper is sure she'll steal her helping hands away and demand he leave. It is out of her heart's kindness that she provides such care for no coin but the addition of a fair few tinctures and ingredients only someone as skilled with a sword as he can wrangle from the wilds. However, as before and perhaps all times yet to occur, she nods her beak and continues to massage her cerate mixture into his skin, taking great care to move from patch to patch just before the vessels beneath start to burst and bruise. 

Slowly, he falls deeply under her dangerous spell once again.

The Plague Doctor's manner of healing is unlike those he's encountered in the past. Her methods differ, but her pretensions are delicate, yet equally as firm as her peers. If and when their paths diverge, he will hold all professionals to such standard… even though a part of him knows certain aspects of his body may never shed her memory. Even now, she is what he envisions before he sleeps: a masked songbird of sensual desperation, needing to feed upon him by licking her meal from his cock, or by merely working his internal essence from his length by hand to shoot down her-

"It would seem you are afflicted with priapism."

A plague doctor's terminology is of no use to him, so the word remains as nonsense until her touch slows, eventually sliding off his jawline to pick at the unraveled bandages in his lap. The motion, despite being none but an airy graze, elicits a ragged grunt from his throat, dislodging stagnant minutes of unyielding restraint and inflaming a burning desire for relief.

The Leper is bereft of words, unable to fathom how to respond but to glare traitorously at the swollen cock rising stiffly beneath cotton, leather, and his own strict wherewithal. There is no time to argue his case—no reason to, now that she knows the state of him. Apologies rise on the back of his tongue but dissolve before they hit teeth. He is unable and unwilling to confirm nor deny what is already plain to see.

The Plague Doctor tips her beak to the side, throwing one large oval of black glass over his lap with a curious sound that rattles like a real raven might while observing a dying animal. A curious sound. One of wonder and interest, but not of disgust as he so fears. 

"If we are to continue these engagements, your health must be your main priority, Leper. I said to speak when things throbbed." The disappointment that leaks through polished leather and herb sachets are not directed at his inappropriate lust nor at the erection that pounds, but he chooses silence over admittance. 

"How am I to heal your lesions when you omit these symptoms? Priapism in the male body," she maintains, turning to her lectern smothered in an array of books, "suggests the four humors are at warred. Imbalances are apparent in your leprosy but can manifest in various distinct ways. Take your cataracts, for example, an overabundance of black biles at odds with floods of phlegm. Eye drops have seemed to shrink this pooling but—"

His fingers fist in the settee armrests—mixed emotions contest, much like the so-called humors battling beneath his corporeal form. Morality urges him to correct her madness, explain that it is the symptom of bereavement, of unmitigated desires, and of her, but he is a man despite the scars and knows only how to direct a woman's touch… not to beg for her understanding.

The Plague Doctor ceases her damnable ramblings, returning to gaze upon his half-naked form after fingering the words in her medical tome. "Forgive me, Leper. I heard rumors the Brothel refused many a man but was not sure you were among them. Leprosy is not contractible through physical contact. Miasma is the more likely culprit, yet.... do they turn you away?"

It wounds him to admit, but the word squeezes from between his teeth less painful than he feared. "Yes."

Her stitched-leather beak bobs in a nod. "I see…"

Wordless and of quick mind, she turns to her cruet-stand, strokes many a brown bottle until she finds the correct one with a modest squeak. Notes of musical quality fill the tent as the Plague Doctor hums amidst her work. The chatter and clatter of glass and clay mixing tools rattle his nerves, but the implication that lingers from her musings adds fuel to the fires that grow his phallus larger… fatter… harder…

He aches more than he's comfortable with. The pulsating harmonizes his heartbeat, thudding quickly and thickly until his thumbs claw inside his palms, needing to release the burden of such an exciting sensation. There is little but bloodlust that can compare to this. A feeling so ingrained in body and mind that he has half the sense of both to not rise from his seat and take—fuck—the voluptuous Plague Doctor over her station, senseless and depraved like only a madman can claim. 

Before he tightens his thighs to do such unspeakable sin upon her, she turns with a clay bowl of clear, viscous lubricant.

"This need not leave my tent if you do not wish it, Leper. Our sessions are confidential. I beg you to consider that my methods—though unconventional—have worked, have they not?"

Again, there is no telling from her birded-mask nor the tall bill and black eyes, but he knows in his bones that she means to cure him of this aching. The way her posture slumps somewhat suggests she is using imbalanced humors as an excuse to do something nonmedical… and the mixture she's made is meant to sell her story. Either way, his cock rises to the opportunity.

Beneath his ragged breath, he tells her, "Your methods have paused, and, in places, reversed my decay." 

"Then, I must insist you allow me to balance your blood manually."

Self-control is an unattainable ideal, he realizes. Once the Plague Doctor's fingers dip into the pool of liquid melange, he tears his fingers from the armrests and wraps them deftly around the buckle of his belt. The hindrance is undone thusly, allowing his other hand to wrangle layers of leather and cotton away, half-snarling at the way her fingertips bathe unhurried in her oils. His cock is so swollen with blood, it refuses to be bent out of the leather slack; instead, he lifts his hips to peel his breeches from the eager mass, watching in excited horror as it spears forward, searching for moistened respite. It would be so easy to maltreat the Plague Doctor into her own settee… lift her garments and spread her open—a hole to be plundered—but she swiftly dribbles a dollop of her thick mixture over his cock, feeding his flames into pulses of pleasure.

Swiftly, he is clutched in her hand. 

Hideously beautiful licks of satisfaction swarm in his groin, pulling taut his sack the same as the air in his lungs. The Leper snorts like a raging beast, cloudy eyes aimed down at where her bare hand works a thumb and finger tightly around his shaft, desperately trying to meet her grip before lavishing a long, slippery stroke from his base to the puffy mushroom of his cockhead. The sound he makes must be terrible, for she puts her other palm to his chest and urges him back down in the seat. Pillows envelop him in a fog of dried petals and essential oils while her hand on his cock becomes two.

Murky eyes, used to seeing such dazzling horrors from dungeons to grottos, now gaze lilted upon the beaked-mask of perfection while she lays all her expertise along his many turgid inches. The wild abandon recalled from his youth is not present here. Instead, she is calm and calculated. Every motion of her hands (and those many dexterous fingers) arrives with purpose. Thumbs press firmly on either side of his length, planted around the underside where the core of his cock sits, stimulated into a blubbering mess. 

Seminal fluid bleeds from him, unlike any humor she can name. Every compressing stroke wrings more blood into his tip, turning the bulbous thing a deep, ruddy purple. Those dome-like eyes of darkness give nothing away. She does not seem unnerved or shocked by his tone, merely drawing her hands back and forth, then, further along, strangling his cockhead and lashing the puckering slit with a small, swirling finger. 

The Leper loses his breath, asphyxiating on the bliss and the over-sensation that follows. 

Lights dampen to watery vibrancy as his vision drops beneath lowered lids. The pleasure is too much to withstand, and so he sinks into the settee and buries his frightful face in a large, trembling palm. There, hidden well enough, he groans freely, allowing the Plague Doctor to readjust her grip and fall to her knees. From below, she turns his cock upwards, pressing sweeping thumbs up and down his lower shaft in imitation of the massages she dons his face with. Stimulation rattles him to the very depths of his soul, taking him to places of greed for more than she gives and pain for all she lathers upon him. The Leper becomes, quite quickly, overwhelmed by her.  _ Relentless _ , he curses, her touch only pausing once she meets the stiff flared ridge of his leaking cap. 

"I… have read about this," she states, sounding vexed and feverish, "but in practice, I am…"

He fists his temple, lost as any hot-blooded man would be in a labyrinth of such attention. Not even the whores, who are never paid less than they think their skills worthy, could give him such that he receives now. Her touch is above all he's had before and all he'll be allotted after. This is his occasion and—with a snarl and rock of his hips that sends the stiff, bobbing pillar of flesh through her creamy palms—he begs for more.

"Sit upon me…" the words rise from his guts into his throat, and the rest rushes between his teeth, "let me fuck you into similar madness,  _ now! _ "

Once, years gone, he was a king: a leprous king, yet still of standing. He asked for nothing and was gifted everything, yet the quiet stuttering of the regal and professional Plague Doctor currently on her knees with his weighty, weeping cock between her fists, strips him bare. More than leprosy could ever bring him, to a place without shame, the Leper tears his hand from his face and reaches desperately for the cowl at her nape. 

Her grip tightens, but as soon as he clutches hidden tresses, one hand releases to brace upon his thigh. She stands on shaken legs. Frightfully, stricken by an epidemic-like illness for flesh, they both attack the leather belt around her waist. The clasp's buckle breaks, but her inner robes of linen and abrasive calico swiftly fall open. No bustier hinders his view, neither do the typical under clothes liken to women of her station. She wears not beneath her robes like a wench of the woods. 

It's a feast, and so the Leper dives in, cock throbbing, and runs his heated tongue up a pebbled nipple. Dark and tan. Skin colored like bleached leather but soft as satin. Her breast presses deep into his mouth until the fat spills over his chin, blocking air from the cleaved abomination of his nose. Latched to her teat like a babe, he drinks off her skin, clawing with short-trimmed nails down her sides and around where her spine bends towards his touch.

There could be psilocybin in her oils, and the Leper has simply succumbed to the effects, manifesting his deepest desires, but her body is as hot as his. Sweat tastes unlike fantasy, and unlike such machinations of his imagination. Eventually, the Plague Doctor tears herself from him where he would much rather fuck and drown.

"Come here," he snarls, ready to stand and chase her out into the cold evening where they are tucked away from others by enough distance, not even the Survivalist will hear her screams. 

The Plague Doctor merely swats his hands away when he reaches for her again, and like an obedient patient, he denies himself, alternately sitting… and waiting. Through red-tinted vision, he watches as she scoops a palm-full of her glutinous concoction and spreads it between her thighs. The action lurches a rotund vein deep inside his groin. His balls pull, and his cock throbs enough that the distended mass slaps against his stomach. 

She sheds her robes, fully exposing the sweetest of hourglasses and the most brilliant tumble of red locks. Straps of leather secure her mask, and with a couple tugs, she tightens such criminal disguise. Some other time the Leper will suggest it's removal, but there is no time to argue her reasons. All he demands is an end to this so-called priapism and to do so lodged within her wet cavern. 

The Plague Doctor takes his hands, and he allows her to turn around, providing him the visual feast of her plump arse before she places his palms over her hips. There, in her settee with the fragrant pillows and lantern balm, she tugs his throbbing cock beneath the curve of her joining cheeks and sits upon it. 

The Leper throws his head back and lets out the softest of groans. Embarrassment is nothing when walls of such drenched tightness stretch around him. Muscles lined in delicate knots and ridges hug and quiver as he swallows deeply, taken in to the hilt with her bird-like cry, hips trembling in his palms. Her shaking awakens strength previously culled by lust. He holds her poised, grip perhaps too tight, yet she does little to complain but begins to ride his cock. Her arse slaps down in his lap. That beautifully sleek mixture making each contact of flesh ring loudly within the tent. Her cunt (gone are kinder terms—gone like his own shame) strangles and sucks with every rise and falls. She swallows his length from the very last inch of puffy cockhead to the very base with growing urgency. Mountains of turgid flesh appear lathered in her clear fluids and thick lubrication, only to quickly vanish back within her cunt. Her wombs bulb smacks his tender slit, ceaseless and angrily, milking him as he drags her down over and over again. Eventually, their rhythm synchronizes, producing a violent meeting of hips, flesh, and boiling blood.

"Doctor—" he pants, losing himself for a moment under the swift fluttering around his cock, "I will… bring you to completion." A soft, unspeakable growl leaves him as his words trigger another series of tight contractions to wrap around him.

"Yes..." she gasps, "...yes, just... keep—like this!"

The Leper takes it a step further than that. She has limits, but she knows how to speak, and so he trusts she will if this pleasure turns sour. As she thrusts down upon him, he plants his feet, tightens his thighs, and swiftly grasps her by the chest and stomach, lifting her whilst on his cock. As her hands flail to hold onto his sturdy wrists, he walks them the short distance to her cluttered lectern. 

They both stumble forward. Her elbows knock the wooden bevel, sending a pile of books to topple, and something else made of a hard glass to the dirt floor. It is not essential, for she pays it no mind, merely gripping the edges of her desk as the Leper bows over her gorgeous form to pound her cunt raw. 

All those quiet, focused sounds from the masked beak now become high yips. The Plague Doctor's breathing deepens, gushing inside boiled leather until their fucking is too much for the bird-mask to contain. Hidden though she is by their position, it brings him a great wave of manly pleasure to watch her reach desperately for the buckles around her crown, trying fruitlessly to alleviate the symptom of her distress while jarringly shoving her arse back into his hips, devouring his cock with her sopping wet cunt.

With a thumb beneath one buckle, he helps her but refuses to cease this exquisite pleasure by pausing the plunder of his girth. 

Too frustrated, or perhaps uncaring, he watches her nails hook, and her fist tighten, snapping one strap in twain. Her mask falls to the smooth surface of the lectern. With a relieved gasp, she swipes it off the desk to the floor then collapses across the covering to be fucked—to bellow her pleasure freely. The clean ripple of her voice is ragged with untold stimulation. Every envelopment of her insides elicits another cry of passion—another quiver, an extra leak of sweat.

The Plague Doctor comes to her completion buried in that medical tome, muffled by ancient pages now covered in sweat, tears, and drool. Tension accumulates around his cock, making every proceeding thrust more pinching, more laborious. The unbearable pressure her muscles wrap around him brings him to his own end. If only he had the willpower to fuck her through such climaxing tremors, but it has been so very long, and truthfully, he is lucky to have lasted long enough to watch her writhe across her desk in such throes of pleasure—to hear her mindless mumbling, split by heavy moaning pants. 

For a brief moment, he wonders if it is safe to unload himself within her, but by the time the notion comes, it is dashed by a snap of hot, honey-euphoria. The headiest of elixirs do not come close to this heavenly nirvana of her scorchingly oppressive cunt. Flame and force wring thick spurts of cum from his sac, purging himself within her womb in several thick, unapologetically selfish thrusts.

It takes eons for his mind to clear—even longer still to think about the state of the Plague Doctor. Her body lies splayed across the lectern, limp like the dead but for a few soft twitches of her fingers. Not even a peep leaves her bare lips when he digs his fingers inside her arse cheeks to drag his cock from her sheath. With a plop, made less awkward by the erotic sight of his seed spilling from her gaping center, his cock begins to deflate, waving and bobbing beneath her dripping slit. Only when he is nearly flaccid does the woman move.

The Leper watches—a hand braced on the edge of her desk—as she combs sweaty red locks from her face. She stands, inelegantly but stable, and turns to gaze upon him.

He was right. The Plague Doctor's beauty was best kept beneath that horrendous birded-beak; those eyes, unfit to be gazed upon except through tarnished black glass. He may have been a king before, might have been worthy of such a sight then, but as a mere leper now, he is unfit. Yet, he does not turn away.

Purple blushing cheeks rise beneath lush lashes, protecting brilliant honey-globes. Unashamed of her naked face, the Plague Doctor stands tall, hiding the hand that keeps her steady against the lectern by cocking a hip out. 

"Visually…" she waivers as though bereft of spirit before rubbing energy back into her mind with two fingers on her temple, "... it seems your priapism is cured. I trust that…" a weighty breath, "you will not hesitate to ask for medical assistance in the future."

The Leper finds himself speechless momentarily before taking the short step towards her, packing her in with both arms—plump breasts pressed to his hardened chest of healing lesions and lesser blemishes. 

"You trust correctly," he promises.

While his words grate on his own ears, far less lyrical than a more charismatic man like the Jester, the Plague Doctor's lips quirk in one corner. Her breathing remains strained, coming harshly into and from her flaring nostrils, but she looks genuinely proud of her treatment, perhaps as grateful as he is for the opportunity. It won't be long until he comes to her for more of this particular panacea, and the wry expression, curtained by sweat and loose red strands, says she knows this. By all signs, it is as desired as the favor he holds for her. 

If he smirks, it is a hideous thing no matter how much the dimple of her smile deepens at the sight. 

"Now," she blows a lock of ginger from her nose, "please, sit back down. I haven't finished your treatment."

The Leper pulls his cock back beneath leather but leaves the folds undone. A thimble of light in her eyes promises more delights than just the sweet-smelling oils she has yet to massage into his chest, his back, and his arms. Indeed, she'll be sore on the morrow, and it would be deplorable to leave without offering to rub her own medicinal mix into her bruised skin… even within that flesh that sits deep inside her supple form. 

"As you say, Plague Doctor."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. All typos are my own. If you have time, please let me know what you think. <3
> 
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